


For The Honour Of The Division

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade wants to win the pub quiz, John wants to socialise Sherlock, and Sherlock just wants to get John drunk.</p>
<p>Thanks to Earlgreytea68 and H_E_Sarah for betaing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Honour Of The Division

On the third Friday of every month, half of Scotland Yard gathered in The Bell for what everyone insisted was a bit of friendly rivalry, but which had become deadly serious around 2001 and was now a matter of honour.

“I invited John,” said Greg, taking a sip of his pint.

Sally groaned. “God, why?”

“Because we always have less people than the other teams and because we need someone who knows some science,” said Greg. “The bloody Forensic Brainboxes always get too many free points on those questions. Besides, I thought you liked him.”

“I do,” she said. “I just don’t really fancy an evening of Tales Of How Great Sherlock Is. It’s worrying how much he worships the freak.”

Greg frowned at her. “You’ve never seen him outside a case, have you? He’s not like that.”

“He does seem to spend most of his time going on about how amazing Sherlock is,” said Clive.

Greg sighed. “Because you only see him at crime scenes,” he said. “Trust me, when he’s socialising he’s far more likely to tell you all about the hideous thing Sherlock did to the bathroom last week.”

“I’m sure nothing Sherlock could do would ever be that bad,” said Billy.

There was a pause. Billy was still rather new to the team and had developed a worrying amount of reverence for Sherlock. Greg thought he probably needed to nip that in the bud, but he wasn’t sure how.

The door of the pub swung open and Greg glanced over to see John come in, looking around for them. He raised a hand to attract John’s attention and then found himself freezing in place as, a moment later, Sherlock followed John into the pub.

“Oh god,” whispered Sally. “Lestrade, with all due respect, I’m going to fucking murder you.”

Billy let out a brief squeak like a teenage girl catching sight of One Direction, a sound Greg knew all too well after his daughter’s birthday trip to one of their bloody concerts.

“Hello,” said John cheerfully as he came over. “Hope you don’t mind that I brought Sherlock.”

Sherlock loomed behind him, glowering at everyone. “Drinks,” he announced, and then turned with a swish of his coat to stride to the bar.

“Oh,” gasped Billy.

John pulled out a chair and sat down. “How’ve you all been?”

Greg ignored that. “How the hell did you get him here?”

“And why?” asked Sally.

“Some rather complex negotiations,” said John, ignoring the second question. “Plus, I told him that he needed to know about pub dynamics, because it was the kind of thing that might be related to a case.”

Sherlock swept back and set down two glasses of whisky, before collapsing into a chair with another glare at everyone.

John frowned at the glass that Sherlock had put in front of him. “I wanted a beer,” he said. “You can’t tell me you didn’t know that.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You agreed to drink what I drink, and I am not drinking beer. Give me some credit.”

John sighed and picked up his glass. “Fine.”

“Drinking what he drinks?” repeated Greg.

John made a face. “That was part of the complex negotiations.”

Before Greg could ask any more questions, the quizmaster came to their table. “Hello, Greg,” he said cheerfully. “Ready for another crack at beating the Forensic Brainboxes?”

“The _who_?” asked Sherlock.

Greg ignored him. “Maybe this month will be our lucky month,” he said, pulling out a pound and dropping it into the glass.

“Maybe,” said the quizmaster, sounding doubtful. Well, okay, so usually it was the Forensic Brainboxes who came out on top, but maybe having John there would make all the difference. And Sherlock could help if there were any questions on body decomposition, as unlikely as that seemed.

Sally, Clive and Billy all added their pound to the glass while John pulled out a handful of change. “A pound, is it?” he asked, then dropped two in. “That’s for me and Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a disgusted sound, but didn’t comment.

“Right,” said the quizmaster. “Here’s your quiz sheet, and there’s a picture round as well this week.”

He handed both over and then went over to the next table. Greg let Sally take the quizsheet – she always did the writing – and turned over the picture quiz, hoping it wasn’t going to be too tricky.

“Male actors,” he said with a sigh. He turned it around so that the others could get a look.

“Ben Stiller,” said Clive, putting his finger on one. “And that’s whatshisface from Ghostbusters – Bill Murray.”

“That one has a drug habit,” said Sherlock, putting his finger on number 9. “Or did – the photo is rather old now; you can tell from the clothes. If he was taking as many drugs as the picture suggests, he is likely either dead or rehabilitated by now.”

“You’d know all about drugs, of course,” muttered Sally, quietly enough for everyone to pretend not to hear her.

“It’s Robert Downey Junior,” said John with a sigh. “The point is to get their names, not their personal habits, Sherlock.”

“How are you meant to get that from a photo?” asked Sherlock.

“You’re meant to recognise them,” said John.

Sherlock frowned and glanced at the sheet again. “Never seen any of them in my life before.”

“Then you should just keep quiet,” said John.

Sherlock huffed, but did as he was told.

Billy cleared his throat awkwardly. “That one there, the first one. That’s the guy from Scrubs. Zach something.”

“Braff,” filled in Clive.

“More drinks,” said Sherlock and stood up abruptly.

Greg watched him stalk across the room glaring at all and sundry, and then looked back at John, who was regarding his glass, which was still half-full, with a rueful look.

“Are you sure this was a good idea?” Greg asked.

John shrugged. “If I’d left him at home, he’d have had a boredom meltdown and destroyed something,” he said. “Besides, it would do him good to spend some time with people in a social setting.”

“You make him sound like a small child who needs to be socialised,” said Greg.

“Can we focus on the quiz?” asked Sally. “Look, number 7. I recognise him, but I can’t say where from, or what his name is. Anyone?”

“Cover their hair,” suggested Clive. “When they’re acting, they all have different hair styles. Cover their hair and just look at the faces.”

There was a brief pause while they all did that.

Billy shook his head. “Not a clue, sorry. They all look too old for me.”

Greg felt himself twitch at that, but didn’t point out that that probably wasn’t a very tactful thing to say, or that Clive was only a few years older than him.

“Oh!” said Clive. “Oh, of course. De-age him a few years, and he’s the guy from the Sound Of Music.”

“Christopher Plummer,” said Greg, and Sally wrote that down.

Sherlock came back with another two glasses of whisky. John sighed and downed the last of his first drink before reaching for the second one.

“I’m not drinking whisky all night,” he said. “Not at this rate. After this you need to swap to something softer – wine or something, if you don’t fancy beer.”

Sherlock sighed, but nodded. “Fine,” he said, letting his eyes travel around the pub. Suddenly, he sat up with a jerk and then turned to glare at John. “You said Anderson wasn’t going to be here! You _promised_.”

John looked over at where the Forensic Brainboxes were gathered around their own copy of the picture quiz with heavy frowns that Greg hoped meant they weren’t going to get many points on it. 

“He’s not sitting with us,” said John. “He’s not on our team.”

Sherlock made a disgusted noise and took an unnecessarily dramatic swig of his whisky.

“Right,” said Clive. “My round, isn’t it? Usual for everyone?”

There were nods from the others and then Clive slipped off to the bar.

John leaned forward a little. “Sorry, Greg, I can’t remember his name. Could you...?”

“Clive,” said Greg. “DC Fairbanks.”

John gave a nod. “Right, of course, thanks.”

Sherlock glanced at the sheet of answers that Sally was tapping her pen against and let out a horrified noise. “You can’t honestly tell me that _that_ is our team name.”

“‘Homicide Homies’ is traditional,” said Greg. “The homicide quiz team has been using it since before I joined the squad.”

“If we were all to stick rigidly to traditions,” Sherlock hissed, “Sally would be in a kitchen somewhere. I refuse to be part of anything with such an inane name. Change it.”

“I suppose you’d prefer ‘Homicide Holmesies’,” said Sally sharply.

“Stop,” said Greg firmly. “We are not changing the name. Get over it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a despairing noise and gulped down more whisky.

“Right,” said the voice of the quizmaster over the crackly PA system. “Are we all ready for another evening of quiz fun? I see we’ve got all the usual teams in today, good to see you all. Just a reminder that if you’re caught using a mobile to cheat, your team will be disqualified, and I’ll be having a word with Internal Affairs about unethical practices, all right? Round One is the picture round, which you should already have. I’ll be taking that away with your answers to Round Two, so make sure you work on it now. We’ll be starting Round Two just as soon as I’ve got a drink.”

Greg pulled the picture round towards himself again. “Enough banter, we need to get on this. We can’t have the bastards from forensics beating us again.”

Sally sighed. “Sir, they beat us every time anyway. There’s no point in getting-”

“What?” interrupted Sherlock. “You let Anderson _beat_ you? Good God, Lestrade, have some self-respect.”

Greg let out a long breath and then glared at Sherlock. “Fine, then,” he said. He turned the sheet around and shoved it at Sherlock. “You do better.”

Sherlock glanced at the pictures, huffed out a sigh and collapsed back against his chair. “Not my area,” he said. “Surely there’s a chemistry round?”

“Unlikely,” said Sally.

Clive returned, setting down the drinks and passing them out. Greg noticed that Billy took his lager eagerly and took a long gulp before returning his admiring gaze to Sherlock again. Great, he was going to be no use at all if he stayed trapped in awe of Sherlock.

“Kevin Kline,” said Clive as he sat down, tapping one of the pictures. “Came to me at the bar.”

“No, it didn’t,” said Sherlock. “You eavesdropped on another team.”

Clive glared at him. “All right, maybe I did. Still got the answer, didn’t I?”

Sally wrote it down.

“Sherlock,” said John quietly. “Do you think you could be a bit less antagonistic?”

Sherlock considered that. “No,” he said.

John sighed and gave Greg a helpless ‘I tried’ look.

“Okay, are we ready for Round Two?” asked the quizmaster. “I’ve got my drink now, so here we go. It’s on music.”

Sherlock perked up. “Oh good,” he said.

“It’ll be pop music,” said John. 

Sherlock groaned and deflated again.

“I’m going to read out a series of lyrics, and all you have to do is name the song and the band,” said the quizmaster.

Greg felt Clive glance at him and set his shoulders. He was meant to be their resident music expert, but the truth was he was only useful if it was before about 2000, and not by anyone too appallingly commercialised. Greg crossed his fingers and hoped for The Clash.

“Question One. _Put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger now he’s dead._ ”

Greg grinned, glancing at Sally, but she was already writing down the answer.

“That was an easy one,” said John.

“He likes to start with an easy one,” said Greg. “Lulls you into a false sense of security.”

“Should I have known that song?” asked Sherlock.

“It’s not by Mozart, so no,” said John.

Sherlock made a face. “Well, if I’m going to be no use, I’ll get more drinks.”

He was up and gone before John could protest, although Greg could see that he wanted to.

“Question Two,” said the quizmaster, and Greg settled down to concentrate.

The rest of the music questions were trickier than the first one, although they managed to get more than Greg would have expected. At around question five, Sherlock came back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

John stared at the bottle. “Sherlock, are you trying to get me drunk?” he asked as Sherlock poured out a very large glass for him.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Well spotted.”

The quizmaster read out question six, and John paused the conversation long enough for Greg to identify the song as _Baby Love_ by _The Supremes_ , and then to defend his knowledge of that by saying his wife had liked it.

“Why are you getting me drunk?” John asked Sherlock as Sally wrote down the answer.

“Two reasons,” said Sherlock. “The first is that I have never seen you properly drunk and I thought the experience might be educational. The second is that I’m hoping if I get you drunk enough quickly enough, you’ll decide we need to go home so you can sleep it off, and we can leave this awful place.”

“Question seven!” announced the quizmaster. “ _I hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain_.”

Greg repeated the words with a frown. God, it was right on the tip of his tongue, so bloody obvious, what was it?

Billy let out a squeak. “ _Sweet Child of Mine!_ ” he exploded, and immediately got shushed by half the table.

“Don’t tell the other teams as well!” hissed Sally.

“Sorry,” said Billy. “I was just surprised I’d got one before the DI.”

“I was getting there,” said Greg.

“There’s a flaw in your plan,” said John to Sherlock. “You’re drinking the same as me – that was part of the deal. I’d drink whatever you give me, as long as you drank the same. And I’m used to drinking with soldiers and rugby players, Sherlock. There is no way that I’m getting drunk before you.”

“Oh, isn’t there?” asked Sherlock, with a hint of challenge in his voice. He lifted his glass. “Drink your wine, and we’ll see.”

John shot him a defiant, stubborn look and raised his glass to take a large gulp.

Greg sighed. There was no way that this was going to end well.

“Question eight!” announced the quizmaster, and Greg turned his attention back to the more important part of the evening.

At the end of Round Two, the quizmaster came around and collected their sheets, and then read out the answers over the PA.

“God, this is so dull,” hissed Sherlock. “How can you stand it? Hearing him reading out nonsense words as if they mean something!”

“ _Hotel California_ by _The Eagles_ does mean something to most people,” said John.

“And it means another one correct for us,” said Greg with satisfaction. They’d done rather badly on the picture round, but he was hoping their lyrics score would even that out.

“I hope there’s a sport round next,” said Clive. “I’m no good at all this music and actors stuff.”

“Do you remember the time we had a round on internet slang?” asked Billy. “I got them all right!”

Billy tended to bring that up pretty much every month. It had been the only time he’d really been a help to the team, and they’d actually beaten the Forensic Brainboxes that week.

“Not sure that’s ever likely to happen again,” said Sally. “Now, one on capital cities would be good. My Dad made me memorise all of those when I was about ten, as a punishment.”

“That seems pretty inventive,” said John. “What did you do?”

Sally shrugged. “I used his penknife to carve my name into the windowsill. And it was awful as a punishment – he used to quiz me about them for months afterwards, and if I got one wrong, I’d have to do the washing up. That kind of thing really engraves knowledge in your head.”

“Capital of Azerbaijan?” asked Clive.

“Baku,” shot back Sally immediately.

Clive looked impressed.

“Okay, I’ve got the scores for you at the halfway point,” said the quizmaster. “And we have the Double-As and Phil’s Fraudsters in joint last place with 10 each, then the Mad Mafia with 12, the Know-Nothinks with 13, Homicide Homies with 14 and the Forensic Brainboxes with 17.”

Greg groaned. “Damn them,” he muttered.

“John, drink faster,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah, all right,” said John. He took a sip and looked at Greg. “Take it there’s a rivalry, then?”

“You could say that,” said Greg. “Goes back years now. We used to be about equal but in the last few years not as many Homicide guys have been interested in coming down to help out, and things have got a bit desperate.”

“He means that we lose a lot more,” said Clive.

“Of course you do,” said Sherlock. “Anderson cheats.”

There was dead silence for a moment. “What?” asked Greg.

“Obvious,” scoffed Sherlock. “You can see him using his phone under the table. Besides which, he’s an amoral little rat and you can’t trust him with anything. John, I’m going to get more drinks in two minutes, regardless of whether you’ve finished your wine.”

“Christ,” muttered John, and applied himself to his glass.

“That toad!” exclaimed Sally. “I’m going to crush him! Come on, let’s tell the quizmaster.”

“No, wait,” said Greg. “We’ve got no proof.”

“This isn’t a criminal investigation,” said Clive. “We don’t need to convince the CPS to prosecute the case.”

“No, but if we accuse him without anything other than Sherlock’s word, Anderson will claim we’re just jealous because they usually win. No, we need a plan...”

John downed the last of his glass of wine and Sherlock stood up immediately. “Drinks!”

“I’ll come with you,” said Billy, nearly knocking over his chair in his urge to jump up. “It’s my round now, anyway.”

Sherlock gave him a bit of a sneer, but allowed him to follow along behind as he headed to the bar.

“Round Three!” announced the quizmaster. “Art and Literature!”

There was a cheer from the table in the corner where the Double-As – the team from Arts and Antiquities – sat. Greg let out a sigh.

“Oh, hang on, my drink’s empty,” said the quizmaster. “Back in a moment.”

“Don’t suppose you know much about art?” he asked John.

John gave a shrug. “Does porn count as art?”

“No,” said Sally sharply. “The good news is that Anderson and his lot don’t know anything about art either.”

“So they’ll be cheating,” said Clive.

“We need a plan,” said Greg again. He paused and thought for a moment. “Right, okay, this is what we’re going to do...”

By the time Sherlock and Billy were back - Billy still staring at Sherlock as if he was the second coming - the plan was in place. Sherlock set down another bottle of wine with a look of challenge at John, who just set his chin and pulled it towards himself to pour out a glass.

“Soldiers, Sherlock,” he said, then raised the glass and tossed the whole thing back. Sherlock grinned and followed suit. Greg hadn’t ever seen that look on his face when there wasn’t a dead body involved. He glanced at Sally to see if she’d seen it, in the hope she might begin to see Sherlock as more than the rude, creepy bastard who only took an interest in crimes, but she was distracted by glaring over at Anderson.

“Question one!” said the quizmaster. Greg glanced at Clive, who gave a nod and then quietly got up, heading towards the toilet around the back of the Forensic Brainboxes’ table. “Which Italian artist painted _The Wedding at Cana_ , hanging in The Louvre in Paris?”

There was a general sigh around the table. “Anyone?” asked Greg, without much hope.

“I can probably only name two Italian artists as it is,” said John. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock made a face. “I only know artworks than have been at the centre of a theft or fraud case. I’ve never heard of that one, so it’s clearly only ever been legally owned.”

“I don’t know,” said Sally. “Italian artist but in Paris? Probably plundered by Napoleon. He took a whole bunch of stuff like that.”

“By which artists?” asked Greg.

Sally just shrugged. “I know the history, not the art.”

Greg risked a glance over to the toilet door, where he could see Clive hovering in the doorway, his cameraphone out and aimed at Anderson.

“Oh, just shove Michaelangelo or someone down,” he said.

Sally did.

“I bet Mycroft would have known,” said John to Sherlock. “Should have brought him instead of you. He’d probably have let me drink at my own pace, as well.”

Sherlock looked as if John had announced he’d murdered his mother. “What? No! God, no, John, if you ever _socialise_ with Mycroft I’ll-”

He stopped as John broke off into helpless giggles. “God, the look on your face! That was brilliant.”

Sherlock subsided into a huff and this time Greg did see Sally looking at him as if not sure what she was seeing.

_Look,_ he thought. _He’s not just some murder-obsessed robot. He has a friend who he lets tease him._

John frowned and reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone.

“Watch out,” said Greg. “Last thing we need is for us to be accused of cheating.”

“It’s from Mycroft,” said John. “It just says _Paolo Veronese_.” He looked up. “Is it still cheating if you didn’t actually ask for the answer?”

“No,” said Sally, already writing on the answer sheet. “Also, for the record, that was creepy as fuck.”

Sherlock made an anguished noise. “Fucking bastard, I hate him, I hate him.”

He pulled John’s phone off him and his thumbs danced over the keyboard for a moment before he handed it back. John looked at his response and his eyebrows rose.

“Bit strong, don’t you think?”

“No,” growled Sherlock, and poured them both more wine, emptying the bottle.

“Question two!” announced the quizmaster. “Which work of literature includes the character Arthur ‘Boo’ Radley?”

“Easy,” muttered Sally.

“ _To Kill a Mockingbird!_ ” said Billy, glowing at the triumph of knowing. Greg didn’t bother pointing out that Sally had already been writing.

Clive sank back into his seat with a sigh. “Couldn’t get a good shot. He’s too good at hiding it from all angles.”

Greg made a face. “We need another plan, then,” he said. He looked at Sherlock. “Ideas?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said decisively. “My idea is that John and I need more drinks. More wine, John, or can we go back to whisky now?”

“We can go back to whisky if you come up with a way to catch Anderson out at cheating,” said John.

Sherlock tipped his head to one side. “Easy,” he said and stood up.

“Question three,” said the quizmaster. “According to the Bible, what animal did Noah release out of the ark first, when the rain stopped?”

“A raven,” said Clive. “Spent a lot of time at Sunday School drawing pictures of it, thank God that’s finally come in useful.”

“Oh shit,” said Sally, looking over at the Forensic Brainboxes’ table. “What’s he doing?”

Sherlock was stood over the table, saying something to Anderson with a smarmy look on his face that didn’t bode well for anyone.

Anderson gaped at him, then stood up and shouted something furiously at him. Sherlock’s hand darted out and snatched the phone from his hand.

“What do we have here?” he asked in a loud voice that made the rest of the room quiet down. “An internet search engine showing results about Bible stories?” Anderson went purple. “And, oh look,” continued Sherlock. “You’ve also been at the Louvre’s website, looking at their Italian works.”

“Oi!” said the quizmaster, putting down his microphone to stride over. “What’s all this?”

Sherlock held up the phone. “This man has been cheating,” he announced. “Here is the proof. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to buy some whisky.”

He handed the phone to the quizmaster and then headed to the bar.

“It’s not true,” insisted Anderson. “He planted those searches on there!”

“When?” called over Greg. “It was only in his hand for a second – how would he have time for that?”

“You’ve been looking up lyrics as well,” said the quizmaster. “Right, that’s it. The Forensic Brainboxes are disqualified for tonight, and you, sonny, you’re banned for life from any of my quizzes. I won’t have people spoiling it for everyone else.”

There were cries of ‘too right’ and ‘you should be ashamed of yourself’ from various parts of the room.

“Right,” said the quizmaster. “Let’s get back to it. And if anyone else thinks they can get away with cheating, think again.”

He went back to his microphone just as Sherlock came back with four double whiskies, which he set out before him and John.

“Going to the bar is boring,” he said when John looked at him. “Far more efficient to just buy it all in one go.”

“Great,” said John with a sigh, reaching for a glass.

“Question four,” said the quizmaster. “Which Mexican painter was married to Diego Rivera and had an affair with Leon Trotsky?”

Blank looks surrounded Greg. “Figures that we’d get them disqualified, then lose anyway,” he said.

“Maybe if I talk about Mycroft again....” mused John.

“No!” snapped Sherlock. He turned to glare at John and Greg noticed that as he did so, he swayed in slightly. Great, they now had a tipsy consulting detective to cope with along with everything else.

The rest of the round did not go particularly well. When the quizmaster came to get the sheets, Sally handed it over with a scowl as if their team’s lack of art and literature knowledge was his fault.

Well, there was one known way to cheer his team up. “My round, is it?”

“Good man,” said Clive.

“John and I require more whisky,” said Sherlock. He pulled out a twenty and handed it to Greg. “Another two each, please.”

“God, do we have to?” asked John.

“Yes!” said Sherlock, turning to fix John with a look. “You promised, John. You did.”

John stared into his eyes for so long that Greg thought he’d gone into some kind of trance. “I did,” he said eventually. “Yes, I promised. More whisky.”

Sherlock smiled and it was a look Greg had never even thought to picture on his face; a small smile of pleasure and affection. As he headed to the bar, he started to wonder if he should be worried about Sherlock and John getting drunk, or getting frisky. Or both.

The results of Round Three were not as bad as they could have been. 

“Right, Phil’s Fraudsters have dropped to last place with 16, the Mad Mafia are at 18, the Homicide Homies and Double-As are tied with 19, and out in front are the Know-Nothinks with 20.”

“Right,” said Greg. “Well, the Double-As had a lucky round. They’re not usually that good, so hopefully we’ll be able to get more than them in the next round. The Know-Nothinks might be trickier. They’re got a broad range of knowledge – it really will depend what the subject is.”

“They’re mainly women,” said Clive. “I’ve still got my fingers crossed for sport.”

“Women can still know a lot about sport,” said Sally frostily.

“Yeah, of course,” back-pedalled Clive quickly. “Just, none of that lot do.”

“Which division are they?” asked John.

“They’re not,” said Greg. “They’re the admin staff. They’re pretty good – better than the Fraud team, anyway; they always lose.”

“Right,” said John, nodding with a wobbling neck. The group of whisky glasses in front of him and Sherlock had slowly emptied and Greg could see that Sherlock was beginning to glance over at the bar again. He wondered if either of them would be sober enough to help in the final round.

“Round Four,” said the quizmaster. “Final round! And tonight it’s General Knowledge.”

Greg winced. That could mean anything.

“We’ll be starting in a minute or two – still time to pop to the loo if you need it.”

Sherlock reached out and prodded John to one side, then watched as he righted himself and turned to glare at him. “You’re not drunk enough,” he said. “More whisky.” He got up and headed towards the bar, weaving slightly as he went.

“God,” said John. “I’m so glad I’m not working tomorrow.”

Greg squinted at him. “You are pretty drunk,” he said.

John nodded. “Oh yeah. Just good at hiding it. Hoping he’ll give up soon, but bastard just keeps pouring it away as if it’s water. God, I wish it was water. Greg, can you get me water?”

“It’s my round,” said Sally, standing up. “I’ll bring you some water.”

“You’re a good woman,” said John, fervently.

She cast him a very worried look before heading off. Greg began to wonder if this evening wasn’t actually just going to leave her even more convinced that Sherlock and John were nutters.

Sherlock came back with another four doubles. John groaned at the sight of them.

“Don’t be pathetic, John,” said Sherlock, fumbling to get back in his chair. “I told you. I want to see you drunk. Get to it.”

“You haven’t told me why, though,” grumbled John, and then sank one of the whiskies in one gulp.

“Incomplete data,” said Sherlock. “I’ve seen you in a variety of states of inebera- inebret- drunkenness, but never completely wasted. You know I like to have as much data on you as possible, and I’m missing this bit.”

He actually sounded frustrated by that, as if not knowing what John was like when he was falling-down drunk was a constant source of annoyance.

“Yeah, yeah,” said John, as if there was nothing in that speech out of the ordinary. “Well, as long as you’ve got a plan of how we’re getting home.”

Sherlock waved a hand. “Mycroft will send a car. Lestrade will get us in it. We’ll be fine.”

“Okay, Round Four,” said the quizmaster. “Hope you’re all ready, boys and girls! Question one: In what year did the London Underground first open?”

Sherlock snorted. “1863. Easy.”

“Wow,” breathed Billy.

Greg pulled the answer sheet towards himself to fill that in while Sally was at the bar. “How the hell do you know that?” he asked.

Sherlock huffed a sigh. “It’s part of London history! How can you not know that?”

“Sherlock has a thing for London,” said John. “Like, a thingy-thing. He knows the whole city backwards.”

“Backwards?” asked Sherlock. “What does- Surely backwards just means being able to get home again?”

“’Xactly,” said John emphatically. “We always get home again.”

“Question two,” said the quizmaster, interrupting what looked like it was going to be an extremely inarticulate debate. “Which actor played James Bond in the 1983 film Octopussy?”

“That one,” said Sherlock authoritatively. “You know. With the hair. John’s favourite.”

John sighed. “Roger Moore,” he said. “He’s not my favourite.”

“You always do the face,” said Sherlock.

“You like James Bond?” asked Billy.

“Me?” asked Sherlock. “God, no. Horrific. John does. Always making me watch it. And the one with the hair is the one John makes the face for.”

“What face?” asked Clive.

“The ‘I’m mentally regressing to the age of 7’ face,” said Sherlock. “He does it with guns as well. Not that we ever have anything to do with guns, bad things, very illegal.”

“Sherlock, shut up,” said John with a sigh.

Sally came back with the drinks before Greg could decide if he could be arsed to ask any questions about all these guns John and Sherlock were apparently not playing with.

“Bloody bedlam at the bar,” she said as she sat down. “All the forensics guys are getting hammered. Except Anderson, he seems to have gone home.”

“Excellent!” said Sherlock, cheering up.

Sally slid a glass of water over to John, who gratefully grasped it.

“What’s that?” asked Sherlock. “No! John, that’s not part of the deal!”

“You never said I couldn’t have water,” said John. He took a long gulp. “Oh, that’s good.”

Sherlock glared at him as the quizmaster spoke again. “Question three. What colour is the circle on the Japanese flag?”

“Red!” said Billy.

Sally pulled the pen and paper away from Greg and wrote that down. “You’ve made a mess,” she muttered, looking at his other answers. “Why is your handwriting so bad?”

Greg ignored her. Why did he need decent handwriting? He had a computer.

“Question four. Which planet in our solar system is the biggest?”

“Jupiter,” said Sherlock as Sally started to write it down. No one else bothered speaking, given how obvious it was. Greg began to hope they might actually be able to get the marks they needed on this round, except if the questions were this easy, the other teams would be getting them all as well. They needed something trickier, but which they still knew.

John turned to stare at Sherlock. “What happened to ‘the solar system is useless information’?”

Sherlock scowled. “You seemed to think it was worth something. And then you pointedly left all those books around. I was bored, so I read them.”

“You read them?” repeated John. “The Usborne Astronomy and Space Sticker Book?”

Sherlock jerked a nod. “I stuck all the stickers in as well,” he said. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

“Wait, sorry,” said Sally. “You did a kids sticker book?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was bored! Besides, it was a present from John. It was only polite to actually look at it.”

Sally continued to stare.

“That was very nice of you,” said Billy.

Sherlock made a noise as if he was going to be sick. “Nice,” he repeated in a disgusted voice.

“Question five. Which actress plays Isobel Crawley in the TV series Downton Abbey?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Clive sighed. “Penelope something,” he said. “Penelope....Wilson. No, Wilton.”

Greg allowed himself a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, right, fine, so I’ve been seeing this woman,” said Clive. “And she’s a bit of a fan, so she’s making me watch it. You know, long evenings on the sofa, slowly getting handsier with her, and the only price is a whole load of melodramatic Edwardians. It’s worth paying, in my opinion.”

“I didn’t know you were seeing anyone,” said Greg.

Clive shrugged. “It’s new,” he said.

“Not that new,” said Sherlock. “Been nearly two months. You’ve not talked about it because it’s a colleague, or the ex-partner of a colleague.”

There was an awkward silence and then Clive let out a long sigh. “It’s Marion Anderson,” he admitted.

“God, really?” asked Billy. “But didn’t Sergeant Donovan used to-”

“Yes, thank you, Hopkins,” snapped Sally.

John shook his head slowly. “Office sexual politics,” he said. “Don’t miss that.”

“I suppose if there’s only two of you working together, that makes them very easy,” said Sally. “You just sleep with each other.”

There was a long, awkward silence as John stared down at his whisky while Sherlock glared at Sally and then looked at John. Greg saw a split-second look of melancholy cross his face before he looked away again. Oh, Christ.

“Question six,” said the quizmaster, with what Greg thought was excellent timing. “Which band has albums entitled ‘Pablo Honey’ and ‘OK Computer’?”

“Radiohead,” he said without thinking about it, a second in front of Clive.

“These are rather easy,” said John. “Are we going to win, or is everyone going to get top marks?”

“Depends how many other people Anderson’s wife has been forcing to watch Downton Abbey,” said Sally.

Clive glared at her.

“Oi,” said Greg. “None of that. We’ll try and act like grown-ups, if you don’t mind.”

Sally pursed her lips, then dropped a nod. “Sorry, Clive, that was uncalled for.”

“It’s fine,” said Clive, although he didn’t sound as if it was.

“More whisky,” said Sherlock, standing up.

“Only one each!” said John.

Sherlock glared down at him. “But that’s not...”

“Trust me, Sherlock,” said John, reaching out for Sherlock’s elbow. “We’re both already more than drunk enough for your data. Besides, it’d be better if we stayed a bit sober now, then drank more after, when we’re home and don’t have to worry about transport before we collapse into bed.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, and then nodded. “Your logic is sound,” he said. “I’ll make Mycroft’s car stop at an off-licence.”

“Fantastic,” sighed John, letting go so Sherlock could go to the bar. As he went, Greg saw him placing his hand over the part of his arm that John had touched.

_Christ_ , he thought again.

“Question seven. Who is CEO and founder of Facebook?”

Billy let out a little laugh. “You’re right, they are easy,” he said.

“Who is it, then?” asked Sally.

Billy stared at her. “You must know that,” he said. He glanced around at the rest of the table giving him blank looks. “Mark Zuckerberg! Everyone knows that!”

“Not us,” said Greg as Sally wrote that down. “Good thing you were here.”

Billy beamed with pride.

Sherlock made it back to the table, set his drinks down, and smiled at John as if he was the only one there. John gave him a rather lopsided smile back and took a glass.

“Right then,” he said. “Here’s to beating you at drinking, even if I can’t beat you at much else.” He raised his glass in a toast.

“You’re not beating me at drinking,” said Sherlock, raising his own glass with an unsteady hand.

John just snorted.

“Question eight. What is the common name for ascorbic acid?”

“Vitamin C,” said John.

“I knew that,” said Sherlock with a frown. “I was about to say that. I knew that one.”

John patted his shoulder gently. “I know you did, mate. Just that I knew it too.”

Sherlock humphed and let his shoulders slump. Greg wondered if he knew that he was tilting towards John.

“I knew it too,” said Clive, quietly enough that Sherlock didn’t seem to hear, although John did send him a black look.

Greg hid his amusement in his pint.

“Question nine. How many spots are there in total on two dice?”

_Right, so, two sixes, two fives, two fours-_

“That’s not knowledge, that’s _maths_ ,” complained Sherlock. “Easy maths! Is there anyone who wouldn’t get 42?”

Greg stopped his adding and nodded at Sally, who scribbled out the rough sum she’d started down the side of the answer sheet and wrote it in.

“Even Anderson wouldn’t need to Google for that,” continued Sherlock. “Ridiculous. This quiz is ridiculous.”

“Yeah, all right, Sherlock,” said John. “No one thought you were actually going to enjoy it.”

Sherlock frowned. “I am enjoying it,” he said, and he sounded as puzzled by the statement as Greg was.

“You’re not exactly showing it,” said Sally.

Sherlock swung his head slowly to look at her. “I got to upset Anderson,” he said. “And John’s drunk enough to have forgotten about personal space. And I’ve never been to one before, it’s good to do new things. And Hopkins spent some time at the bar telling me how wonderful I am, I always like that. Also, this whisky is rather good, for a pub. Maybe I should have another one.”

Greg turned to give Billy, who was flushing with embarrassment, a dry look. He’d told him last week not to gush too much at Sherlock because his ego was already big enough. Apparently that hadn’t sunk in at all.

“I think you’re all right without another one,” said John, patting at Sherlock’s knee, and Greg saw what Sherlock meant by John having forgotten about personal space. Even having it pointed out to him didn’t seem to have made him move away.

“Question ten. Last question of the night, folks, last chance for you to get a point! What was the name of the cat at 10 Downing Street between 1989 and 1997?”

There was a deafening silence around the table.

“Bugger,” said Clive.

“How’s that a fair question?” asked Billy. “I was eight in 1997!”

Greg winced at that, and watched John, Sally and Clive do the same.

“I knew I should have invited Mycroft,” said John. “He’d know.”

Sherlock’s fist came crashing down on the table. “No, John! Never invite Mycroft. He’s like a vampire – once he’s invited in, he never leaves.”

“Okay,” said John carefully. “Well, do you have any idea, then?”

“The name of a cat?” asked Sherlock. “Don’t be an idiot. I don’t even know the human who was living in Downing Street then. Or now,” he added after a moment’s thought.

Sally let out a sigh. “I feel like I used to know,” she said. Everyone’s eyes swivelled to stare at her. “You know when you can remember knowing something, but not what the thing was?”

“Try really hard,” said Greg. “Come on. If we get this one, we’ll get full marks on this round. We need that.”

“Visualise where you were when you knew it,” suggested Sherlock. “Be back there, and then it’ll come back to you.”

Sally took a deep breath and shut her eyes. “It would have been my Dad, he’d have mentioned it,” she said. “He had a thing for stupid political trivia. Let me just...”

“Okay,” said the quizmaster. “I’ll be coming round now to collect your sheets. Final results revealed in about five minutes, with a voucher for a round of drinks for the winning team!”

The last thing this team needed was another round of drinks, but that didn’t mean Greg was any less desperate to win. “Come on, Sally,” he said. “For the honour of Homicide.”

Sally let out a sigh. “It’s something stupidly dull,” she said. “Not cat-like at all. Norman. No, not Norman, but-”

“Nigel,” suggested John.

“Kevin,” said Clive.

“Trevor,” said Greg.

Her eyes flew open. “Humphrey!” she hissed, scribbling it down just as the quizmaster came over to take the sheet.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said, taking it. “Any last minute bribes? No? Right then.” He wandered off to the next table and Greg let out a long breath. There was nothing to be done now but hope the other teams had messed that round up.

“This whole thing is rather stressful, isn’t it?” said John.

“Only if you take it too seriously,” said Clive, stretching. “Like the DI does.”

Greg glared at him. “Just because you don’t have departmental pride-”

“Oh, I’ve got plenty,” said Clive. “I just save it for our closed case record, rather than our ability to remember the name of a cat who once lived somewhere famous.”

“It’s important that we show our superiority in all fields,” said Billy with a degree of earnestness that made Greg want to roll his eyes.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Not true. You only have to be truly superior in the important ones. Anything else doesn’t matter.”

“You mean like deductions, science and destroying your flatmate’s belongings?” asked John.

Sherlock held up a finger. “If you’d really liked that shirt, you’d have hidden it from me. Besides, it was a horrible colour. Made you look awful.”

“Not the point,” said John, leaning over to press his point. “It was mine. And you killed it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll buy you a new one. One that makes you look prettier.”

“Prettier?” repeated John.

Sherlock froze, but was saved from having to respond by the voice of the quizmaster.

“Okay, I’ve marked everyone’s sheets, and....Ooh, it’s looking interesting. In last place, with 23, are  
Phil’s Fraudsters, the Mad Mafia are at 25, the Double-As have 28, but tied in first place are the Know-Nothinks and the Homicide Homies with 29. That means a tie-break! If each team could send up a team member, please.”

Greg groaned. “Oh, god, I bloody hate tie-breaks.”

Sally patted his arm. “Just do the best you can. Tying for first place is good enough for the honour of the team.”

Greg nodded with resignation and then stood, watching Patsy Bosworth do the same at the Know-Nothinks table. He gave her an adversarial look which she returned with interest.

“Okay then,” said the quizmaster once he had them in front of him. “I’m going to ask a question, you both give an answer, and the closest one wins,” he said. “Understand?”

Greg nodded.

“Here goes,” said the quizmaster. He glanced at his card, and then up at them both. “How many times does the word ‘blood’ appear in Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’?”

Oh, fucking hell. As if Greg had the first clue about anything to do with bloody Shakespeare. Right, okay, think. Macbeth. That was one of the ones where everyone ended up being murdered, so they probably talk about blood a fair bit. “Seventeen,” he wagered.

Patsy hesitated for a moment and then said, with what sounded like false confidence, “Twenty-three.”

“Oooh,” said the quizmaster, drawing the moment out unnecessarily. “Well, neither of you are what I would call close. The actual number is 42, which means the Know-Nothinks have won!”

Greg clenched his fist and turned back to the Homicide Homies table, leaving Patsy to get her prize. He sat back down and got commiserating pats from Sally and Clive.

“No shame in getting that one wrong, sir,” said Sally. “Not sure any of us would have done any better.”

“I would have,” muttered Sherlock.

John elbowed him. “Shut up,” he hissed. “And, no, you wouldn’t. You know bugger all about bloody Shakespeare.”

“Do you always get this sweary when you’re drunk?” asked Sherlock.

“Piss off,” said John.

“I think I like it,” mused Sherlock.

“Right,” said Clive, starting to stand up. “Well, I think I’m heading home. I’ll see you all at work. Come on, Billy, I’ll give you a lift.”

“Right,” said Billy, hopping up. He gave a strange bobbing nod in Sherlock’s direction. “It was great to see you, Sherlock. Just....really good.”

Sherlock waved a vague hand at him, not looking away from John. “Of course it was.”

“Goodbye,” said John, wasting a friendly grin on Billy, who wasn’t paying any attention in his rapt, excited look at the back of Sherlock’s head.

“Come on,” said Clive, with a sigh.

As they left, Sally got called over by the man on the Fraud squad who had been trying to chat her up for weeks, with mixed success. Tonight was clearly his night, because she agreed to let him buy her a drink.

“Right, I’m going to have a slash, and then we’re going home,” said John to Sherlock. “If you still want to drink more, we can, but I’m not sure you’d really be able to remember your data if we did.”

Sherlock made a face at the very suggestion he wouldn’t be able to remember data. “I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand a bit too widely and nearly overbalancing on his chair. “Just fine.”

“Yeah, I got that,” said John with amused affection, and then left for the loo.

Sherlock leant his head on one hand as he watched him go. “You should get a John, you know,” he said, apparently to no one. “They’re fantastic. They make you tea, and they smile at you like they mean it, and they go with you everywhere.”

“Like a teddy bear?” asked Greg with amusement.

Sherlock turned to face him, frowning at that. “No, no, not at all like that. Teddy bears are fluffy, and John’s – well, he can be fluffy. He’s got these jumpers, you know.”

“I’ve seen them,” said Greg.

“But he’s not like a teddy bear. He doesn’t- Oh! You cuddle teddy bears, but I’m not allowed to cuddle John. That’s the difference.”

Oh, Christ, how did Greg end up in this conversation? Well, maybe he should just try and get Sherlock to end up at the logical conclusion of all his rather obvious pining, so that he’d never have to be involved with it again.

“But you want to,” he said, carefully.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “Of course. Sometimes I get to put my feet under his leg when we’re watching TV. It’s not fair, Fairbanks gets to be ‘handsy’ with Mrs. Anderson if he watches Downfield Abbey or whatever it’s called, but I’ve watched hour after hour after bloody hour of James Bond and all I get is warm toes.”

“Have you tried for more?” asked Greg.

Sherlock considered that. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t want to scare him. He’s not the huggy sort.”

“I think he would be with you,” said Greg. “You should try it.”

Sherlock stared down at the table, his chin sliding down his hand until it fell off and he had to catch it with a jerk. “Wanted to,” he said. “S’why we got drunk. Thought it would be easier, and if he doesn’t like it, we don’t have to remember it. Alcohol’s good for that. But now I’m here, and I’m. I don’t know. It’s hard.”

Greg took a deep breath. He remembered the look on John’s face as he’d smiled at Sherlock earlier and the way he’d patted his leg as if there was nothing odd about it. 

“I think you should just do it,” he said. “Get it over with, and then you’d know. You’d have the data and you could move on from there.”

Sherlock considered that. “Yes,” he said, standing up. “Yes, I will.”

Greg grabbed his arm. “Wait until he’s back from the toilet,” he said. “No one wants to be hugged while they’re peeing.”

“No,” agreed Sherlock, and collapsed back into his seat again. “When he gets back I’ll hug him. Even though he’s not wearing one of the really fluffy jumpers.”

“Great,” said Greg. “Sounds lovely. I’m going to see if Mycroft has sent you a car or if I need to find you a taxi.”

“There’ll be a car,” said Sherlock with a sigh. “There’s always a car. Bloody Mycroft.”

The toilet door opened and John emerged, and Greg got up and headed for the door as quickly as possible. He paused before he went out of it though, looking back to see Sherlock standing up, giving John what looked like a terrified look, and then falling on to him with all his limbs spread. Just as Greg thought it was going to end with both of them on the floor, John caught Sherlock and held on to him, keeping him up and hugging him back with just as much force. 

Greg saw him say something, looking bemused, and Sherlock straightened up just enough to stare at John’s face from less than an inch away. Greg wasn’t sure how he could focus on anything from that distance but apparently he saw something, because he grabbed John’s face in both hands and laid a snog on him that made Greg want to cheer.

Apparently he wasn’t the only one watching, because there was a cheer or two, and a long wolf whistle. Neither John nor Sherlock seemed to hear them as they stayed locked together in the kiss.

Greg quietly congratulated himself for getting something right tonight, even if it wasn’t the bloody tie-break question, and then went out to find Mycroft’s car. He’d pour them both in it and go home to bed, safe in the knowledge that a very drunk consulting detective and his slightly less drunk assistant/boyfriend had become somebody else’s problem to deal with.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] For The Honour Of The Division](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118744) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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